Broken
by It'sSmallerOnTheOutside
Summary: Lost, broken and confused, Sherlock Holmes desperately attempts to crawl his way back to the streets of London.
1. Chapter 1

I've always loved to lie on the beach during a storm. To watch the wind whipping the sand up in a frenzy before my eyes; each grain caught in an endless battle with itself. To hear the waves rolling in, screeching their battle cries that echo out across the shore. To feel the rain hammer its constant rhythm against my chest and most of all to feel the immense power of an endless supremacy washing threw my body in waves of passion of which I could never hope to amount to.

What I've never encountered before is the niggling sensation of another's presence. It was this itch at the edge of my mind that made me open my eyes to scan the beach. He stumbled across the shoreline, dragging his feet like dead weights through the sand, his feeble limbs defenceless to the raging battle that surged towards him. I squinted through the heavy mist to see him collapse, the waves rolling over his spindly body and softening the nearby sand of his watery grave.

I struggled to my feet, fighting against the storm that continued in its blind rage. The body persisted to sink deeper and deeper into the sand as I hurried towards him. He was cold as death, shivering viciously and eyes rolled back in his head like loose marbles. His sodden clothes clung to his lanky body, linking him to the waves that coaxed him out to sea. I looped my arms under his shoulders. The sudden weight of a man, sodden and limp, strained against my arms and we both collapsed, waves lapping impatiently at our ankles. The wind's cry sailed past my ears and the damp sand sucked at my empty limbs. The man began to mumble. Senseless words dribbling from his mouth and sailing away with the wind. "John?" I sat him up, cupped my hands around his face and attempted to draw some warmth to his icy skin. He opened his eyes groggily words still slipping from his lips. "Listen to me. You're going to be okay. I need you to stand, okay? Can you do that?" The hazed eyes drooped shut again and as his head lolled back like a dead man's. Then, to my surprise, the empty body surged into motion robotically, powered by an unknown source. His arms shook dangerously as he pushed himself to his feet as if reminding us he could crumble from exhaustion at any moment. Together we stumbled back up the beach and away from the battle of the storm, breaking our way through Danger's cracks and slipping silently from the sea.


	2. Chapter 2

Noises of the battle seeped in through the windows, quickly stifled by the apartment air, thick with apprehension. Flashes of energy surged by, lightening the cramped space like a camera capturing a frozen moment. I perched on a chair, a cup of coffee warming my numb hands and watched the stranger that lay cocooned on my lumpy sofa. Bundled in blankets and huddled before the fire place the man continued to shiver viciously, the words flowing from his mouth like a stream of water as he slipped in and out of consciousness. Hypothermia settled in for the night.

{ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~}

The man slept for 2 days; waking only once to cry out into the night. I rushed to his side worried he'd injure himself as he thrashed senselessly. I knelt by the sofa, still groggy from sleep and placed a wary hand on his shoulder. Sweat streaked his angular face, fear and panic plagued the deep blue of his eyes and his whole body shook viciously. There was no more I could do than talk slowly and calmly to him, desperately hoping he'd find some safety in my words. His face searched mine, dazed and confused, but the steadiness of my voice seemed to soothe him and he soon collapsed once again, limp and exhausted.

{~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~}

He woke on the morning of January 12th. I was making coffee in the kitchen when a single word tumbled from his lips. "Thankyou." No more than a whisper. He'd muttered mindlessly throughout the night but for some reason this single word seemed more conscious and deliberate than any other.

I soon found myself face to face with the stranger that had occupied my couch for 2 days and oddly, I was lost for words. It dawned on me how foolish I had been to take in a complete stranger I found wandering the shoreline during a storm, oblivious to any dangers that might present to myself when he woke. Despite how weak and feeble he looked I was suddenly incredibly conscious of his foreboding height and broad tensed shoulders. How much did I not know?

"You – you saved me." He mumbled. The words drowning in the mug before his lips. His voice was deeper than I'd anticipated, like the deep growl of thunderous clouds. I took a brief sip from my own coffee and answered with a small smile. We sat for minutes, not saying a word, him seemingly lost in the peaceful silence and me not wanting to shatter the tranquillity.

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes." He offered his pale hand.

"Molly." I took his hand and shook it once. "Molly Griffin."

"Molly." He chuckled. An act that shook his weak body dynamically and sounded odd in the cramped space. "I had a friend called Molly. Always there for me she was. Always. Even now and even then."

I could see his eyes slip away with his mind, lost in a deep memory. I could see the longing for his lost friendship, the darkness of an unknown tragedy and regret, deep, deep regret swirling and building like a storm in his eyes. A single tear broke its way out of that storm, climbed the steep mountain of his cheek bone and tumbled down the other side, slipping to hide inside the cave of his chin.

"And John?" I whispered. This struck a nerve, yanking him sharply out of his memory like a slap in the face. "You talked about him," I continued cautiously, "while you slept. You wanted to apologise. Told him how sorry you were. Screaming out his name sometimes, pleading with him not to be angry, to try and understand, wanting him to forgive you, begging him to forgive you."

Silence fell as the essence of the words hung still in the air.

I'd said too much.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry." The words tumbled from my mouth. "You were just talking constantly, muttering to yourself and I couldn't help but hear, even though I tried not to and I was worried you wouldn't wake up and I didn't know what to do and - " The useless apology slipped away before I could snatch it back. I cringed and stood up starkly, then whispered to the sullen man, "Sorry. I'll leave you alone. Uh, there's food in the kitchen, I'll, um, be in the back room if you need me."


	3. Chapter 3

'His name is John Watson. He was my best friend. To be fair I met him but two years prior to… well I suppose I should just start from the beginning. 221B Baker Street. The home of the consulting detective and his blogger. That's who I am, you see, a consulting detective. I do the Police's job when things get a bit overwhelming for them, which is most of the time. John shared the flat with me, assisted in my cases and blogged about it. Utter nonsense most of it, I can't imagine why people would read such obscenities and yet. Anyway, the villain of this tale goes by the name Jim Moriarty. The cruellest, sharpest and smartest man I have come to know. The most human human and the most bored. A consulting criminal he liked to call himself. Fitting. He was the one that pushed me to my limits. Before long I was stranded on a rooftop, the three people I cared about held at gunpoint, a dead man at my feet and the choice to fall. 'Falling's just like flying,' he told me once, 'just with a more permanent destination.' He was wrong. Falling is not like flying. The fall takes everything; plucks it from your grasp like a blade of grass from weak, brittle earth. Squeezes your secrets out of you to dribble through the sky. The fall takes all and leaves you stranded, alone. But most of all the fall removes you from the world; permanently. To fly is to take flight knowing that that which you leave behind will be safe. To fall is to shatter everything you love and leave a self-shaped hole, a crack in everyone you have touched, no matter how brief as you breeze past. But I did not choose to fall. I fell but I will never fall. I could not even give those I care about the finality of that decision. Because I am selfish. And selfishness leaves a trail of destruction. But Sherlock Holmes is a selfish man and I cannot change that. All I can do is try to pick up the pieces. He was my friend you see, and I deceived him. And that is why I have to find him; why I _will_ find him. Because he needs to know I'm sorry. Because I need to pick up the pieces. Because if he doesn't know, if he never knows, then Sherlock Holmes will fall. I will fall. It happened once before. And never again.'

Those were the words that lay dead on the page, that sidled in beneath the morning haze and stamped themselves before my eyes. John Watson, Jim Moriarty, all strangers to me. But not him. Not Sherlock Holmes. I knew this man seemingly better than I ever would have imagined. He took the risk to trust me with his words. And that is not a privilege I take lightly.


End file.
